


Wednesday Morning

by LinguistLove_24



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Angst, Elections, F/M, Songfic, Wednesday Morning-Macklemore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 13:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/LinguistLove_24
Summary: Songfic, as per tagsPost election*REPOST





	Wednesday Morning

**Wednesday Morning**

 

 

Wednesday, November ninth, twenty sixteen.

 

 

Opening her eyes was the last thing her body remembered how to do as she rolled over in bed. Discharge providing itself as an adhesive in the night hours saw lashes clinging so tightly to bottom lids she had to pry a few of them away with her fingertips. For a few wonderful seconds, everything remained blurred; cushion of pillow and cocoon of blanket the only feelings she registered. Skin was protected, mind was shielded.

 

 

“Babe, you gotta wake up.” The tall, slender shadow of her husband loomed over her, her mouth moved slowly up into the slightest of smiles at his voice.

 

 

“I'm awake,” Hillary said hoarsely. “I don't want to be, but I am.”

 

 

It surprised her that she'd gotten any sleep at all. Tears had stained the pillows until the moment her body had given in to exhaustion, but she didn't remember the exact hour or minute at which that had occurred. Bill had held and soothed her as tightly and as long as he could, whispered sweet nothings against her ear as heavy eyes had fallen slowly closed. They'd not talked much about the happenings of the night. Four decades of their lives entangled together had him well aware of all her ways, and he knew she would internalise everything for a while, struggle to find reason, blame herself when she came up empty.

 

Eyeing her sympathetically, Bill reached down amongst the tangle of covers that still enveloped her and found a hand, tangled his long, nimble fingers with her shorter ones. “I know honey, but you need to get ready. You've got a speech to deliver.”

 

 

He was right. She couldn't bail on her commitments to the people. Much as she wanted to, it wasn't her style. She'd called him earlier in the morning to congratulate and concede, not because she'd wanted to, but because she knew it was the right and proper thing to do. The campaign was over, the election was over, divisions needed healing. Others may feel differently, but she knew she had to do whatever she could not to be a part of what further widened them.

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

When the previous night had started, she'd felt buoyant, hadn't given much thought to the prepared concession speech and gotten what she now knew had been a little too comfortable in her poring over of the victory one.

 

 

“Come on,” Bill said to her, slowly disentangling her limbs from the covers and coaxing her to the edge of the bed before gently scouting out her hand once again to pull her up to him.

 

 

///

 

“What are you doing?” The voice Barack heard echoing in his own ears was softer in its tone than he'd intended it to be, but fitted to the moment which they found themselves standing in; the party's loss, the work which had scripted his legacy temporarily halted and set into stone, his wife's silhouette commanding the doorway of their eldest daughter's room where she stood watching her as Malia lay peacefully asleep.

 

 

“I couldn't sleep,” Michelle told him, upper torso half turned, one hand resting on the jamb, voice equally soft.

 

 

Taking in the grim expression playing across her features and prominent bags underneath her eyes, he nodded lightly.

 

 

“I wish I didn't have to wake her,” she said, voice almost cracking, and he stepping gingerly toward her, pulling her back against his chest without protest.

 

 

“I know,” he said almost inaudibly, letting the heat of his breath flit across her earlobe and the imprint of his lips find and touch down on a cheek. “Me too.”

 

“Have you talked to her yet?”

 

 

“Hillary?”

 

 

He felt Michelle nod before the corners of his eyes saw it.

 

 

“Yeah, I called her earlier.”

 

 

“Is she all right?”

 

 

“No,” Obama said flatly, blowing out a breath. “Not yet. But she's not the only one.”

 

He was not unaware of the hopelessness people were beginning to feel. It had blanketed whole areas of the nation, looming over them like a black cloud, manifesting itself in the hearts of many. Some had talked of leaving, were even acting on it, uncertainty of the future too much to bear. One half of him didn't blame them, the other – the president – knew he had a duty to them. This nation was his, and it was theirs too.

 

 

He knew life's happenings came in cycles that waxed and waned. Light always gave way to heavier, hope to bursts of struggle and despair. Fight is what had gotten him where he now found himself, what he'd tried to do for all who had believed in him, and what all those before him had done with an intensity loud and passionate enough to afford himself and those around him the opportunities they now had.

 

 

 

“I worry for her,” his wife said, not for the first time.

 

 

“You're her mother, it's your job,” he answered with a half smile. “She's basically an adult, and we've had years to teach her. I like to think we've done okay.”

 

 

“Sasha's not,” she mused. “Not yet.”

 

 

“And we will continue to teach her as we've always done,” he said, the statement one of a handful of things in which his confidence hadn't been the slightest bit shaken. Regardless of what had happened in their lives, throughout his presidency and beforehand too, both had always made sure to give them the best possible example to follow. During less than ideal times, he'd told them not to retreat into foetal position, shown them how to stand up and fight back, seek out areas their skills were most necessary and find ways to push life forward.

 

 

The legacy he'd set out to leave hadn't been one hundred percent or flawlessly completed, and it may take a few steps back before someone else saw it moving forward further, but his time in office wasn't quite over. Duties still called him, and when they ceased, he'd still do what he could from wherever he found himself situated next. The torch would be passed – to his daughters, to the sons and daughters of America, to all progressive souls who wished to carry it in attempt to light up the streets, each other, or even themselves.

 

 

The approaching four years and where they'd lead were both uncertain and without precedent. It was up to him in these final weeks to reassure, to aid, to act, to practice what he'd always preached. As they had undoubtedly done in the past and would surely do in the future, the light of torches – whether they be the ones in the hearts of the people or the one Lady Liberty clutched in her hand – would flicker, maybe even weaken, but they wouldn't die.

 

 

America – his nation, where he'd chosen to make a life and home – had been beyond good to him. So many people he'd met along the journey had echoed the same sentiment. Despite struggles and differences, pains and grievances, he knew coast to coast of patriots who proudly bled red white and blue. Their sons and their daughters would follow them, hopefully affected more by the examples their parents worked tirelessly to set than the white noise trying to diminish efforts and drown them out. Fight was fire, and fire was first lit before it spread.

 

“Trump's not gonna raise her,” he said out loud into the fading darkness as his wife locked gazes with him. “He's not gonna raise any of them.”

 


End file.
